Mockingbird Hush
by Cyrelia J
Summary: Canada waits for America alone in his house. "The first time America knocked him clear over not even realizing he'd hit anything. The second, third fourth, onto the fifty seventh time now that he stands there naked, stands there waiting for America..." America never sees him but that's okay. Canada can wait. Am/Can. Obsessive Canada. Blink and you'll miss it US/UK.


Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters. I'm also not making any money off of this.

Note: I have no fucking clue where this came from. Okay I do know. Lots of Lana Del Rey lol. Since I have an affinity for dark twisted and sick nation tans this is a short story of an obsessive invisible Canada and America who's possibly more twisted than that.

WARNINGS: Very dark subject matter, violence, language, obsessive Canada, death fantasizing, and twisted personalities- I think incest is a given but you never know…

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Canada turns the key in the lock and enters more quietly than he needs to. He glances once more to the empty driveway before putting the key back in his pocket. _It doesn't matter anyway, stupid. They don't see you. They never see you. They just see the door swing open and shut and that's if anyone's bothering to watch anyway when it's getting close to dark._ Canada closes the door and kicks off his shoes leaving them behind the door. America won't hear it hit them when he opens it- they belong to Canada after all- but _he_ will. As his eyes adjust to the faint light in the room, Canada unzips the hoodie and can feel his hands start to get tense already as the zipper clacks down. It's too hot. America always keeps his house too warm in the fall. Canada looks up to the stairway at the other end of the living room and takes two steps dropping the hoodie on the rug. He bends over and yanks his socks off throwing them over the couch with a satisfying sighing smile and by the time he's discarded the shirt in front of the stereo his hands are shaking as he undoes the buttons of his jeans.

"_Your_ hands wouldn't shake, Al. They'd be steady," he whispers to himself. "Or maybe they'd shake after all. Maybe you'd look at me and say," Canada changes his pitch until he sounds just like America like he practiced. "God, Mattie, you drive me crazy. Like totally crazy like I need to... to..."" Canada stammers and feels his face heating up, tugs the jeans off, sitting back on the carpet in the center of the room in nothing but his boxer briefs, balling the denim tighter and tighter until it's dense enough that it might as well be a collapsed star. Holding them in one hand he gets to his knees, letting the rug scrape, shutting his eyes like he's on his knees in front of America and not. _The couch. Right in front of the couch dropped down carelessly like Al just tugged them off. Like we're watching TV and he looks at me and says "Hey, Mattie, why don't we get naked and have a little cultural exchange..." _The couch, Canada throws them unfurled like the sail of an ancient galleon to the ground before half diving onto the rug face first.

"I'd like it if you shoved my face against the carpet Al. I don't care if it hurts, you know I never care, even if I complain, even if I tell you to go slower, to be gentle, you know it doesn't matter as long as I'm with you, Al." He shuts his eyes tightly as he gets to his knees, head still down with a soft pant and a soft pleading whisper to a phantom America as he Awkwardly shifts his legs yanking off his underwear. He pushes back, wiggles, gets another harsh scrape of face to floor before rolling on his back bringing the underwear to his face inhaling deeply. _We're twins, Al so you should smell like this- like me. _But America doesn't. America smells like earth and endless plains stretching out in the waning hot sun and Canada smells like evergreen and sweat and he throws his hands back above his head with a frustrated sigh tilting his hips as if America were standing above him, naked, hard and ready to "Al, Al, Al, Al..." He drops his underwear above his head and sits up suddenly looking up at the clock count blink whatever precious few seconds he has to-

The car pulls up in the driveway and Canada naked, runs to the bay window, face pressed to it leaving phantom prints as America parks the old Impala the motion activated light turning on. Canada counts, Canada watches knowing every fidget, knowing every careful ritual of 8 track removal to the leather case, dusting the seat off, America checking his reflection in the mirror and he presses his face, his chest to the cold glass as if he could sink through it and into America's body. _Come come come... please come in..._ Canada fingernails make an unpleasant scratch on the glass pane and America looks up at the window, at the curtains, at him with a cheerful blind smile as he closes the door and walks around the house whistling. _I know you're whistling, Al. You always whistle. I whistle too even though you can't hear me. It's October so you're whistling "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." You wanted the Mets to win the World Series even though they haven't made it since 2000 and- _

And the key turns and the door opens and Canada turns away from the window with the biggest smile he can manage opening his mouth to greet America, to welcome him, to throw himself into his arms and... And he does nothing but take a few slow steps and stand there stupidly because not matter how many times he does this America never sees him. The first time America knocked him clear over not even realizing he'd hit anything. The second, third fourth, onto the fifty seventh time now that he stands there naked, stands there waiting for America to see the clothes on the floor, to trip over the damn shoes, to fall into him, fall against him, to feel him to see him to-

"Al..." barely above a whisper but in the quiet house it echoes painfully to his ears as America hangs his jacket behind the door and walks right past him as Canada reaches for him, grabs the coat that slips easily through his fingers.

"You'd think I was a ghost, eh?" Canada says to America's back as America stretches and walks to the kitchen turning the light on getting kraft dinner or "mac n cheese" chanted happily while America throws the containers of Easy Mac pasta into the microwave and waits with a hum. Canada doesn't run to him. He used to run into the kitchen, used to knock over chairs, used to scream at him and upturn the table but he learned in the last house that America is far too afraid of ghosts and now he just sits on the old metal linoleum table not caring if it's his naked ass a foot from America's dinner because America won't see him anyway. "I bet you had a busy day, Al," Canada says when America sits with a can of soda in his hand, a fork in the other, and stirs and looks through him to the television on the wall that he wishes he could shatter into a million hateful pieces. "I bet you're gonna turn on the TV, turn on Ninja Warrior even though it's just a rerun and laugh your stupid head off and ignore me, aren't you?" Canada slides a hand up America's cheek, puffed out with processed cheese and noodles and leans in and licks salty cheese from his lips with a pained shiver.

"I love how you taste, Al." He licks again, careful to move right when America swallows and lifts the ice cold can of Barq's to his mouth. He watches over the rims of Quebec when the clicker goes into America's hand and the TV goes on and he'll have to scream over it and that's fine because America can ignore him all he wants but he isn't going anywhere. Canada braces himself and leans over, licking the rim of the open can not caring if it cuts his tongue because it's kinda like kissing America and if he has to bleed a little to do it then God he'll do it. "I bet you're fizzy too, Al. I bet... I bet if you ever kiss me you'll know that!" He screams in America's face as America shovels more easy mac in his mouth and when he looks back up at the screen Canada steals a noodle spitefully slurping off cheese before spitting it back in the bowl where America's dumped about 4 containers worth of easy mac. "See now you can taste me, right, Al? So it's like we're kissing again and it's not just me, it's you tasting me and... and..."

He brushes America's hair in a rush almost falling off the table in his rush to get up.

"And I can give you a massage, Al. You know you like that. Didn't... didn't Arthur give you one that... that time?..." His hands are on America's broad shoulders kneading slow and hard America not shifting in the slightest bit as he continues to eat. "I was here... you know. When Arthur was here last month. I... I watched that, Al. I watched you and him and the couch and..." He kneads harder. "I can do it so much better, Al. I don't care if I'm your brother, Al, that'll just make it better, right? That just means we're closer than him and you I mean he's not really your brother I am... me..." His fingers hurt as he kneads the hard Appalachians knowing his hands will break before America' breaks his concentration even as he screams in his ear, "You don't need him when you have me! You don't need him Al because I'm right here! I'm here I'm here I'm here!" And he's learned that no matter how hard he pushes, no matter how hard he shoves or hits America feels more strongly a housefly landing on his hand with its slurping proboscis than he ever will Canada.

But that's good sometimes. It's good 'cause it means that Canada can scream and hit and demand to know why the hell America let Arthur fuck him on _their_ couch. Their couch because Canada said so and that's where Canada lays with his head on America's lap while America turns out the lights and watches a movie and rests a big bucket of popcorn on his head while Japan sits on the floor with an _umeboshi_ filled _onigiri_.

"Why did you have to let him do it there?! That's our place, my place, my place in your bed you asshole and if you'd look at me just once just once in your whole miserable selfish life!" Canada shoves at him, slaps his back hard, smacks his head, tries to shakes his shoulders, doing nothing but throwing himself off violently when his hands slip and e falls backwards on the floor head dizzy and pounding as the fluorescent kitchen lights swirl above his head and he grabs his hair and just. Screams.

"You're mine Al mine mine mine and I didn't want to see him with his hands all over you when it should be me! I didn't want to see him shoving his cock in you I didn't want to see you looking at him the way you should be looking at me!"

He kicks the chair that guttural scream making his throat burn furiously when the chair doesn't so much as move and he could swear, _swear_ that England could see him when he laid America back and drove into him and Canada threw everything he had at shoving England off because America was his his _his_ and if he couldn't be with his brother than no one could and he didn't care if it didn't really kill him it felt good to do it anyway. England deserved to have the fireplace catch his clothes on fire and if Canada had to burn the whole house to the ground- He rolls on his side, blinking at the hyper magnified carpet fibers neatly sticking up from the tacked down bar separating the two rooms before he starts to hyperventilate.

"I'm glad the house didn't burn to the ground, Al. I'm glad you sent Arthur home. I like this house. This is our house, Al. And maybe for Christmas I'll get you 2 cats just like that song, right?" Canada swallows as he uncurls himself and steadies his breathing. _See Arthur didn't finish in him, Arthur didn't come in him, he's still yours, he's still your good clean Al without Arthur marking him..._

Canada rolls over with a soft self conscious laugh as his glasses slip on his nose and he gets to his knees.

"I know you didn't mean it, Al." He watches America walk past him to throw his dishes in the dishwasher. "I know you were just lonely, Al. See you... you..." Canada stands trying to dance in front of America as he moves through the house, the sun dimming down to dark, the shadows in the house dancing playfully along the walls as America yawns and walks up the stairs and America needs him more than ever right now because he's forgotten him and if he remembers, if he remembers and _sees_ him then. "Right, let's go to bed, Al. You'll... you'll take me to bed, right? You're such a good brother, Al. You're the best brother, Al. I _need_ you, Al." Canada follows America up the stairs, knees almost buckling with excitement as he speaks to himself in a quiet rush imagining every wonderful feel of America's hands, his mouth his... his prick. "It's, okay, Al," He says as he waits in the doorway of America's bedroom while America brushes his teeth and flosses. "I'll be right here. I'll be here when you say your prayers and I'll even pray with you. See... see I haven't forgotten how to pray. I'm not like Francis' Rimbaud. I may be in the depths of hell but I'll never forget... I'll never forget how to pray, I'll never forget _you_, Al. See, I pray every night. I kneel down just like you and pray for us. I mean I mean if us two crazy kids can't make it in this world, then who can, right?"

Canada laughs softly as he bounces on the balls of his feet and counts down every measured moment of America's nightly ritual.

"Come to bed, slowpoke," Canada teases his fingers curled around the doorframe. "You tease me about being too slow but now who's holding us up? Now who's... who's making me wait Al? It's you. It's you silly, but that's okay. That's okay I can wait I can watch the seasons pass, I can watch you forever here, I can lay next to you, I can touch you I can... I can do everything, Al. I can suck you, Al. I can lay back for you, I can give it to you. Just say it." He watches America spit rinse water down the sink and throws his arms around America's neck tightly. "Sayitsayitsayitsayit..." America slams him into the doorframe as he turns to his room and Canada feels the grip slipping, holding on tighter not caring if America chokes because it'll be them dying together after all and he's sure America won't mind as long as he's with his brother.

Canada barely hangs on, barely avoids being flipped until America reaches to take his shirt off and he lets go quickly, moving, watching, shaking and waiting until he can runs his hands over America's smooth bare chest and feel every blade of grass dotting the Great Plains as he does so. America throws his shirt behind his head with a happy yell of "score" when the t shirt hits into the basket. Canada beams at him watching fingers deftly undoing pants, dancing around him, watching every angle, knowing that America won't take off the briefs until his shower in the morning but that's okay, Canada can wait. Canada's good at waiting for his brother.

"You look good, Al" fingers run over America's shoulder blades as he kneels down by the side of the bed and sometimes Canada wants to throws himself on the bed and force America's head down between his legs. Canada licks his lips as he drapes himself over America's back, hugging him around the waist, pillowing his forehead to the back of America's neck feel the wetness dripping down as America prays for England, for Japan, for Italy, for everyone in the world that isn't him and Canada pleads to God above for America to see him.

America throws him off without even realizing it when he stands up and Canada barely catches his balance as he staggers back to the hamper.

"I guess we should be modest for bed, right? Like Arthur told us?" Canada picks up a discarded button down shirt inhaling deeply bringing it to his face knowing America won't see it if he doesn't let go."I'll wear this for you, Al," He puts the shirt on, the shoulders of the tailored shirt just slightly big, the chest a little wider than he needs but it fits. "See, Al, it fits perfectly. You for me perfectly. We fit together, we belong together." Canada walks slowly to the bed as America crawls beneath the covers laying back in the dark room. "You're so strong and then you look so vulnerable, so peaceful." Canada sits on his chest and then straddles him putting hands around America's neck, shirt open, Quebec slipping down on his nose again as he leans forward. "I bet... I bet if I did it hard enough... I bet if you felt me stealing your breath you'd know... you'd know how I feel, Al," Canada leans forward, putting more pressure on America's neck, hiccuping a soft laugh when America doesn't falter in the slightest.

He breathes in when America breathes out as if he could steal some of that strength for his own, as if he could take America's life's breath into his body, and he seals his mouth to America's inhaling those soft shallow breaths as America starts to fall closer to unconsciousness, his hands squeezing so hard his fingers hurt and joints crack and Canada's thighs tighten harder around America's waist, his cock springing beautifully to life as he breathes, as he half sobs, half chokes, pulls back just enough to lick America's sleeping lips, every muscle in his body tight as his thumbs press to America's throat ineffectively. America continues to breathe more deeply, doesn't move, doesn't choke and Canada feels a crooked hysterical smile on his face as he pants out, nearly breaking himself against America like waves on the rocky Maine coast.

"I love you, Al." Canada chokes out feeling far more suffocated in the hot room than America even with bruised fingers faltering against his neck. And he watches then as America's cornflower blue eyes flutter open for just one passing sleepy second to look at him with perfectly half mast lucidity. America smiles at him. America always makes him work so hard for it.

"I love you too, Mattie." Canada comes.


End file.
